


Witchcraft in the Whispers

by Bizzird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-01-29 02:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21402994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bizzird/pseuds/Bizzird
Summary: This fic was inspired by the same lyric in The Highwomen song "Highwomen" as well as my love for all things HP. Set during the Salem Witch Trials of Colonial New England, Hermione Granger is a healer, and a witch, walking a tenuous tightrope, undercover in Puritan society. When the witch hunt begins, who will be found out? Who will expose others? How long can any of them survive? Semi-historical take. Rated E for violence and future Fleurmione.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Comments: 13
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is just a teaser, second full chapter already in the works!

She was protected by her father’s wealth and her mother’s beauty. Her armor was such that even the thick stratum of mud that lined the streets of Salem Village for the better part of the year failed to tarnish her gilded exterior. Her newest pair of shoes danced untainted down the sullied path, and the hem of her dress taunted the earth with airy, blown kisses, never quite touching, as she sauntered along. That dress, though it made no ostentatious leaps beyond the bounds of Puritan mores, still drew just as much attention as the fine gown of crimson French silk she had arrived in just three months prior. Still, this plane, black garment of no exceptional hue nor hem, caught the sinful stare of every man by which it passed. Hermione, however, was willing to venture that it was the body underneath that was the work of exception, and it was at that which the menfolk of Salem leered. Almost as if the other woman was drawn to the buzzing of Hermione’s thoughts, she turned sharply and made her way from across the street towards the baker’s door from whence Hermione was exiting. The brunette gave a curt nod as the blonde slid past her in the doorway that she was now thankful she was departing. For her part, the other woman bestowed upon her a pearly white smile and a purred “Bonjour,” as she slipped into the establishment. Hermione barely contained her snort of derision as a cloud of lilac scented perfume clung thickly to her nostrils. The scent was surely a luxury retained by the Frenchwoman against better judgement and on the good faith that no one would admit that they had been near enough to that human embodiment of temptation to complain about it. Hermione continued on down the road towards the village common without a second glance or a second thought. Internally rebuking Fleur Delacour would have to wait for another day. 1691 had ended with Salem in the clutches of a bitter winter and 1692 was picking up right where it left off. As such, the sick, the starving, and the seasonally stark raving mad were in no shortage, and she had an errand and three more calls to make before the day was out. She made her way through the wind blistered grounds of the common, off towards her first stop: the home of Goody Bishop.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione brought her thickly gloved hand to the aged wood of Goody Bishop’s door, the dense fabric muffling the rap of her knuckles.

“Just a moment, dear!” The sing-song voice called from inside. Hermione heard a chair scraping and the shuffling of unsteady feet across wood flooring. Shortly, the door creaked open and she was met with the wizened smile and misty hazel eyes of Bridget Bishop.

“Come in, come in! Warm yourself up now,” Goody Bishop chirped, opening the door wider and motioning toward a crackling fire at the other side of her small kitchen.

“Brother Dudley was out of the honey rolls that you like this morning. You’ll have to settle for a plain brown bread today,” Hermione stated, setting her medical bag down by the door and moving the basket she carried over her right arm to the small, white table next to the fire. She removed her thick woolen coat and the scarf she had wrapped around the lower half of her face and hung them both on the hook beside the door.

“You could just make me honey rolls yourself and stop bothering with Brother Dudley all together,” Goody Bishop remarked drolly, a knowing smirk playing the edges of her lips upward.

“You know full well that baking isn’t my strong suit, nor is it a task I have any mind to improve upon.” Hermione retorted, removing the layer of cloth she had used against the howling wind outside in an to attempt to keep the fresh bread warm on her way to Goody Bishop’s stead. 

“Oh, I know dear. And so does every chattering hen in Salem. Thoroughly pagan of you, as I hear it on the street,” the elderly woman chuckled.

“Do they have nothing better to content themselves with than my lack of culinary aptitude? I myself have larger, and might I say, a good deal more important problems to attend to, thank you very much!” Hermione replied, failing entirely to keep the irritation out of her voice. She knew better than to rise to Goody Bishop’s bait, but the comment had struck a raw nerve. Bridget knew well, far better, perhaps, than most, what it felt like, and what it meant to be a single woman under the scrutinous gaze of Puritan society. Though often unfounded and entirely hypocritical, the condemnation was no less terrifying. Excommunication was not something that Hermione could afford again.

“I’m sorry my dear, I shouldn’t be ruffling your feathers this early in the morning. Especially not when you’ve braved that wind to bring me such a lovely gift!” Bridget said softly, moving towards Hermione. She smiled warmly and clasped the young woman’s hand gently between her own, giving them a gentle squeeze that Hermione knew was both the older woman’s apology for the teasing, as well as assurance of deep-seated sympathy. Hermione smiled and sighed,

“I know you can’t help yourself. And today, the bread isn’t your gift,” Hermione giggled as Bridget’s eyebrows knit together and she unconsciously shifted towards the basket of warm baked goods on the table, as though Hermione meant to take it from her. “No, no, you silly old bat, I’m not going to un-gift your bread. I meant I’ve got something besides that. When I bring you bread every single day, it’s not so much a gift as a duty, is it?” Hermione bemoaned playfully as she arched an eyebrow at the now shamelessly grinning Bridget, who had begun to rub her knotty hands together in anticipating glee,

“Oh good show! What is it that you’ve really brought me then?” She asked. Silently, Hermione began unbuttoning the links that kept the fabric of her dress sleeves tight around her wrists, and she rolled said sleeves up snuggly around her elbows, exposing the soft skin of forearms that belied the sinewy strength underneath.

“I’ve worked up an incantation for those claws of yours. I know they have been giving you difficulty this winter,” Hermione nodded towards Goody Bishop’s weathered hands, still working together in delight, but now slowing as attention was brought to them. Her knuckles were swollen, the digits bulged at every joint, and many of them curled in on each other in ways that were unpleasant to look at, and must certainly have been even more unpleasant for Bridget to feel.

“Claws!? Now I say, Miss Granger! Let’s see if I let you bring me bread again after that!” Bridget feigned offense and drew her clasped, gnarled hands toward her chest dramatically.

“Oh, come off it and let me look at them,” Hermione smiled, gently extending her own hands towards the elderly woman. “Now, I know normally you’d do it yourself, but seeing how you can’t exactly lay hands on your own hands… well, best let me do it.” Without hesitation, Bridget extended her thin arms and placed her hands in Hermione’s. Hermione took a moment to massage them gently, warming them in her own, then closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, “Manicula salutem,” she spoke clearly and forcefully as her hands clamped down upon Bridget’s. A periwinkle hue glowed around the two women’s united hands. Hermione drew her hands over Bridget’s, pulling towards her own body in a smooth stroke, kneading her fingertips deeply into the twisted flesh and bone beneath her. As she pulled away, the light purple glimmer died away to reveal Goody Bishop’s hands; the skin was wrinkled and leathered as ever, but the bones had become straight once again, their joints returned to their former petite size.

“Beautiful!” Bridget exclaimed, holding her hands up before her face, turning them slowly and gazing at their rejuvenated form. “Fine work, my dear. Don’t suppose I could’ve done it better myself,” she smiled.

“Yes, well, my mother always was quite gifted at healing charms. So, it’s her you’ve got to thank really,” Hermione blushed, never one able to take a compliment.

“Ah, yes,” Goody Bishop nodded, delightedly flexing her fingers, “your mother was a fine woman and an even finer witch. But you, Hermione, you are a force of nature. I have been around a long time. A lot longer than these stodgy old Puritans, mind you,” she grumbled, nodding her head in the general direction of the village center with a look of great distaste on her face, “but I have never, in all my years, come across a witch with as much brains or as much raw power as you. That is simply a matter of truth.” Hermione peered at her embarrassedly to find Bridget staring intently at her. Staring in the way she did when she spoke of things of the utmost importance. These moments of gravity were rare for the generally bubbly Bridget, but Hermione never questioned their legitimacy. The first time she’d seen that look was when she had first exposed herself as a fellow witch to Hermione. The second, was when she had told Hermione of her mother’s death during the first century of the Burning Times. The most recent was when she had spoken of old magic, and its latest revelation to her, a revelation that had gripped her with such a fear she had been unable, or unwilling, to tell Hermione what it was she had foreseen.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t be saying that had you met my mother,” Hermione smiled forcedly, silently pleading with Bridget to release her from that demanding gaze. To Hermione’s great relief, the older woman acquiesced with a soft smile, and turned toward her still waiting basket of bread.

“It truly is a shame that I was not able to meet Tacita. I would have very much liked to thank her for that gift. And for you.” she picked up the loaf of bread and moved steadily towards the butcher block on her countertop where she removed a bread knife from its block and beginning to saw the loaf into manageable pieces. “Now, make a cup of tea before you go back out into that cold and tell me who is on your call list today.” Hermione moved to the teapot as she was told, filling it with the icy water from the basin beside the cupboard. When it was full, she carried it to the fire and murmured, “Wingardium Leviosa,”. The kettle began to levitate and she guided it effortlessly with the motions of her outstretched hand until it hung neatly from the hook that hung over the dancing flames. After she was done, she sat in one of the two worn armchairs by the fireplace.

“First I’ve to stop at the Poole’s. Young Matthew’s fever has come back for the third time since November. Second, I’ve got the Barrowe house. Mrs. Barrowe has taken ill again, and her husband can’t possibly seem to imagine what’s wrong with her this time. Or so he informed me,” Hermione snorted, and Bridget laughed heartily at her lack of subtlety.

“And I gather you have a thought or two about what might be bothering her, yes?” Goody Bishop queried.

“Well, I imagine if her husband would stop making midnight deliveries to young Widow Marbury’s house, Mrs. Barrowe’s fits might stop all together. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve brewed up a couple more bottles of calming draught to help ease her anxiety but it’s the best I can do.”

“Oh, come now dear, we both know you could do more,” Bridget prodded as she applied generous amounts of homemade apple butter to the thick slices of bread she had plated for the two of them.

“You know full well that I cannot and will not,” Hermione chided. “What would you have me do? Place a confundus charm on that lecherous old toad? With my luck he’d still have the gumption and none of the know-how and wander his way into Reverend Parris’s house next door. The Parris’s by the way, are my last call. Betty, the youngest, is very unwell, as her father tells it.”

“Never much liked that Parris man,” Bridget asserted as she shuffled over to the free armchair with the plate of bread in one newly sturdy hand and two teacups balanced neatly in the other, tea leaves already waiting for the water at their bottoms. “He’s too angry to be a preacher. Though, just angry enough to be a Puritan, I suppose.” Hermione laughed as she guided the kettle out of the fire once more with the levitation charm, deftly bowing its spout over each of their cups in turn.

“You’re not wrong there,” she mused as she blew gently over the coils of steam spouting from her glass. “He’s a hard man to deal with. Though, I suppose if I were married to Elizabeth Parris, I’d be in a rather nasty mood all the time, too.”

“You may not like her thorns, but I’ve seen you admiring the rose…” Bridget said, a grin breaking over her lips as Hermione choked on her mouthful of tea.

“I—It’s not—why would I—” Hermione stammered

“Hermione, pretenses are wholly unnecessary. As long as you continue to love me enough to bring me bread every day, my jealousy shall remain in check,” Bridget said over her mouthful of bread. She winked conspiratorially, and Hermione knew the joke was her nonchalant way of relating to Hermione that she was not bothered where the young witch’s romantic inclinations lay. “However, as far as those Puritans are concerned, that may be a worse offense than witchcraft. Though I think you know that,” Bridget finished her cup of tea and moved toward the sink with her glass, intuitively summoning Hermione’s to her outstretched palm with a soft “Accio,” as the younger woman finished the last dregs. Yes, Hermione knew that Bridget’s concern was not in where her interests lay, but in how much danger they could put her in. She shook the troublesome thought from her head and stood, carrying the plate and her untouched piece of bread over to the table where she set it to rest.  
“Thank you for the tea, Bridget. I had best be going.” She didn’t wait for the older witch to answer before retrieving her now empty basket off the table and quickly making her way towards the door. She swiftly donned her coat and scarf and bent to retrieve her medical bag.

“Hermione,” Bridget called softly. Hermione drew a deep breath and placed what was hopefully a convincing smile upon her lips and turned to face Goody Bishop. “You are a beautiful force of nature and, and I wish you could flower for all of the world to see. But these Puritans…they see our flowers as weeds in their garden, and they’ll do anything to root us out. Just be cautious whose roots yours get tangled with. Roots don’t always stay underground.” Bridget’s eyes had once again taken on their steely fervor as she looked at Hermione standing in her doorway. Hermione nodded and swallowed hard, batting her eyelashes furiously to flutter back the tears as she turned to reach for the doorknob. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” she called as cheerily as she could manage.

“Honey rolls!” Bridget yelled after her as Hermione turned and opened the door and made the bracing step out into the cold of Salem Village.


	3. Chapter 3

Matthew Poole’s chest cavity sounded as though a small bird were trapped inside. With every shallow breath, his lungs fluttered and rattled helplessly against the weight of the fluid bearing them down. Hermione lifted her ear from the little boy’s sternum, delicately buttoning his pajama shirt back up. She was careful not to catch the eyes of his mother until she had worked out what she might say.

Your son is dying of consumption.

No.

I can fix your son.

Still, no.

I can fix your son with the thing you fear more than his death.

That was right.

She knew what to do. She knew she could fix this. But she would never be able to explain it. Her mother hadn’t been able to explain it either…The boy, he was wracked by the fever, by the infection plaguing his tiny body, drifting only briefly into consciousness every few hours. He would never remember. But his mother. His mother would never leave his side, and even if she did, Hermione was a healer, not a priest. Her “miracles” were not sanctioned by God, and miracles didn’t go unnoticed or unvetted in Salem Village. Hermione took a steadying breath and slowly turned toward the young Widow Poole. The tear tracks down her face were fresh. Her hair was mussed up and her dress clearly hadn’t been changed in days. Hermione caught every screaming plea flying from those bloodshot eyes directly in the chest. This boy was the last thing she had. The last link to her husband, dead in an accident at the stone quarry. He was her first and only miracle, the last child of five; four others stillborn before him. He was her greatest love and her only remaining tie to this earthly realm and, mostly likely, Hermione thought, to her sanity. Hermione opened her mouth to speak but choked on the words.

And Matthew began to choke, too. 

He coughed and sputtered, wheezed and gasped on the bed. His frail form jolting under the duress, blood now spattered across his pink lips and marble-white chin. Hermione turned for him, reaching for a cloth in her medical bag to cover his mouth and prevent the blood from splattering into the home.

“Please, go fetch me a wet cloth. Make the water as hot as his skin can tolerate. Hurry!” She called over her shoulder to Mrs. Poole. She heard the woman running down the stairs and clattering into the kitchen.

You can do this.

She heard the voice in her ear, clear as day. She knew she would. Her mother never failed to torment her in these moments.

“You know I can’t!” Hermione cried out loud, desperately mopping up the fresh spray of scarlet that had now made its way to Matthew’s bed shirt. “Please don’t ask me to, please,” Hermione begged.

This is why you’re here, Hermione. It is why I lived, too. It is a gift.

“It is a burden,” Hermione snarled underneath her breath. But she looked up to see that what little color was left, was draining from Matthew’s cheeks. His eyelids fluttered frantically, and then snapped open. His bright blue eyes found her face.

“Miss…help,” he croaked, and spluttered, and clawed at his own throat. Hermione surged forward and held his hands down. He was awake now, and he felt that he was suffocating. Steadily, his eyes closed again, and his mind was back into the world of dreams. But his body continued to fight, fight for all it was and all it ever would be. Hermione felt her resolve crumbling as that soft, desperate plea still rang in her ears. 

“Damn it!” She shouted. She had to hurry. She placed one hand firmly on Matthew’s face, her palm pressed to his chin and her fingers and thumb on either side of his face, prying his mouth open while steadying his head back against the pillow. She raised her other hand over his open mouth and steeled herself, “Tergeo.” His body seized. His chest arched toward the ceiling and his head jerked further back into the pillow. From his mouth, a thin stream began to seep. Blood, the pale-yellow fluid, intertwined and spooling out from his lips. Hermione was shocked at the quantity; shocked that it had not already drowned him. When the last of it was out, she released his face and used her free hand to grab an empty bottle from her medical bag. She slowly guided the pestilent liquid into the glass bottle, meticulously making sure she spilled not a single drop. Hurriedly, she corked the bottle tightly and tucked it back in her bag, and not a moment too soon; she could hear Widow Poole bolting back up the stairs. The door burst open and the young woman sprinted to the bed, the wet cloth steaming in her hands.

“Give it here,” Hermione ordered, and Mrs. Poole quickly complied. Hermione pressed the steaming cloth over the boy’s mouth and nose and reached into her bag, pulling out a small, green vile. She removed the stopper and applied several drops of the light brown liquid to the cloth over Matthew’s mouth and nose. “It’s a mixture of lungwort, eucalyptus, peppermint, and lobelia,” Hermione explained as Matthew’s breathing eased and regulated, though not from the tincture, as she knew. She removed the cloth from his face as she spoke, “It will help to clear his airways and sooth his breathing. He coughed up a good amount of blood while you were downstairs,” Hermione extended the bloody cloth she had wiped Matthew’s spattered face and chest with, “This seems to be the worst of it. As long as he can breathe well, I see no reason why his fever shouldn’t break in a few days. Hopefully, then, he will be out of the woods, so to speak. I will leave this tincture with you. Do this same process, with the warm cloth and a few drops, each morning and night. It will help.” Hermione stood, pulling the blankets she had been sitting on up snuggly around the small body, now steadily and easily breathing in the bed. She moved to the fire snapping in the corner of the room and threw both sullied cloths into it. By the time she had turned around, Mrs. Poole was already perched on the bedside, gently stroking Matthew’s hair and smiling down at his finally peaceful form. She looked up as Hermione approached, tears again shining on her face, but a smile now bursting over her lips,

“Thank you, Miss Granger. I can never possibly thank you enough. Please, there’s some money in the wardrobe over there, I think. Please take whatever I owe you,” she gestured over to a large wooden chest of drawers by the door.

“No, no. I should’ve gotten rid of the fever the first few times. You owe me nothing,” Hermione smiled. Mrs. Poole opened her mouth to protest but Hermione spoke first, “Really, Mrs. Poole. This,” she gestured down at the fitfully resting boy, “this is payment enough.” Before Hermione could react, Mrs. Poole was on her feet, throwing her arms tightly around Hermione.

“Thank you,” she whispered through tears. Hermione stood stiffly and awkwardly patted Mrs. Poole’s back with one hand.

“No trouble at all,” she said. Finally, Mrs. Poole released her and returned to her position at Matthew’s side. Hermione stepped forward and placed the small green bottle on the stand next to the bed, bent and retrieved her bag, and turned to go.

“God bless you, Miss Granger,” the words hit her like an icy snowball. Sharp, painful, cold, and trickling horribly down her spine. She simply nodded her head and continued, much more briskly down the stairs. She hurried through the bottom floor of the house and burst through the back door just in time. She hit her knees and splashed the snow with an acidy tide of sick.

God bless you. The highest token of Puritan love. But if they knew. If they really knew, they’d make sure she felt their God. And it would not be love she felt. She had saved that boy. He would live. He would grow strong in form and faith. He would become another hangman, ready to guide her into the noose she had just strung for herself in that attic bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione’s hands worked steadily. She took Mrs. Barrowe’s pulse, probed the soft flesh of her neck beneath her chin. She felt of her abdomen, listened to her heart and breath. She went through all of the expected motions with the unfeeling face of a seasoned professional. She found nothing. She had known she would not find anything when she set foot in the door. But, for Mrs. Barrowe, it was just as much about the show as anything else. Meanwhile, the sooty haired, unkempt lump of a man that was her husband, William Barrowe, stood waiting impatiently in the corner.

“I’ve got a tonic to sooth your nerves and stomach in my bag, Mrs. Barrowe. It will help with the headaches as well. At this time, it seems the worst of your troubles have subsided, but the tonic will help with any lingering symptoms.”

“I knew it! She’s got not one thing wrong with her! Again!” Mr. Barrowe shouted, clomping his way out of the room and exiting the house with a resounding slam of the front door. Hermione tried to maintain her blank expression but felt she might be failing to keep the loathing completely out of her eyes.

“He’s right, you know,” the voice was soft, and the statement was matter of fact, not expecting a response. 

“I--I’m sorry?” Hermione stammered, pausing her ministrations as she looked into Mrs. Barrowe’s face.

“I’m not sick. I wasn’t any of the other times either,” Mrs. Barrowe stated, gazing blankly towards the door through which her husband had left. “I thought, maybe, that if he realized how much distress his…absences…were causing me, he might put them to an end.” She moved her eyes to Hermione’s face, who had all she could do not to instantly break eye contact. “Do you think it’s true, what they’re saying about him? Him and, her?” Mrs. Barrowe asked, her eyes narrowing towards the window to her right, through which could be seen the distant form of the Marbury stead.

“I think,” Hermione ventured tenuously, “that the people of Salem say a lot of things to pass their time. Very few of which, are any of their concern, or have any founding,” she finished, desperately hoping that this would be a satisfactory answer. It was not.

“That,” Mrs. Barrowe smiled weakly, “was a very skillful avoidance of my question, Miss Granger.” Hermione swallowed thickly under the woman’s weary gaze. “My husband is unfaithful. I knew, before we were even wed, by the way he watched other women. Much too closely. I suppose I thought that making those vows to each other might change him, or that he would grow out of the fancies of his youth. I was wrong.” She sighed resignedly and Hermione’s heart broke for her. 

“I am sorry, Mrs. Barrowe. Your husband would do well to recognize that the grass is very rarely greener elsewhere. And between you and I,” she patted Mrs. Barrowe’s hand reassuringly and lowered her voice to a whisper, “the Widow Marbury’s husband got the lucky end of the deal with scarlet fever, if I do say so myself. She’s a rather wretched woman and misery loves company. I believe your husband will get what he is due soon enough. You, on the other hand,” Hermione straightened up, breathing easier as a smile was now playing at the corner of the other woman’s lips, “you are the finest seamstress in all of Salem and I have not seen a single piece of work leave this house since all this nonsense with that great baboon of yours started. As your healer, I am giving you strict orders to get those hands back to work, clear those headaches by putting your mind to something beautiful.” Mrs. Barrowe’s mouth spread into a wide grin and she nodded her head, a single glittering tear spilling down her cheek as she did so.

“Thank you, Miss Granger. They’re certainly right when they say you often heal more than just the body. You’re too kind and I cannot thank you enough. Please, take that tonic with you for someone who needs it more.” Hermione nodded appreciatively. Mrs. Barrowe paid her her due and she gathered her things and made her way on to her last call.

*****

The Parris house lay at the farthest reaches of Salem Village, tightly bordering the dense wood line. The house was tall and dark, and loomed in intimidating, unwavering unison with the large white pines behind it. Hermione knocked at the front door and waited only moments before said door was opened to a miniscule crack. The gaunt face of the Reverend Parris peered into the early evening shadows at her.

“Miss Granger, it’s you,” he breathed in what seemed like relief.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Hermione queried, giving an interested glance back down the path she had come up.

“No, no,” he answered hurriedly, “it’s just, well…best you come in and see for yourself.” He opened the door to her and ushered her inside, closing it as soon as her coattails had made it through the entryway. In the large sitting room that greeted her, sat another figure. Young Abigail Williams, aged eleven years, and the niece of the Reverend Parris. The girl sat weeping in a large chair near the fire, her face drawn and pale, with large circles under her eyes as though she had not been sleeping.

“Hello, Abigail,” Hermione smiled warmly, removing her coat and scarf as she greeted the girl.

“Hello, Miss Granger,” Abigail croaked, her voice hoarse with the signature of a great amount of crying.

“This has been difficult for Abigail,” Reverend Parris spoke up. “She and Betty are quite close, much more like sisters than cousins. It has not been easy for Abigail to see Betty…this way,” He trailed off and his eyes drifted towards the stairs that lead to the second story of the large house. “If you’ll follow me this way, Miss Granger,” and he set off towards the staircase. Hermione followed suit and the pair made their way up together. As soon as they crested the top of the stairs, Hermione heard it. A high, wailing sound, and the thumping of what sounded like a headboard against a wall. Her gait faltered ever so briefly at the sound, but it was enough for the Reverend to notice. 

“That’ll be Betty,” he sighed, looking back at her. “We’ve lined all the doors and window casings with thick blankets. That, and with us living so far back, I don’t believe anyone has been able to hear her outside of the home.” The two continued along the corridor of doors that wound away from the stairs. At the third door, Reverend Parris stopped, took a deep breath as though preparing himself, and knocked on the door. “Elizabeth, please unstop the door and let us in. Miss Granger has arrived to attend to Betty.” Hermione heard faint footsteps alongside the wailing and clunking. She gathered that Parris’s wife must’ve been removing the makeshift mufflers in order to open the door, as the cacophony of sound from within the room grew louder and louder with each passing second. Soon, the door opened to the formidable figure of Elizabeth Parris, the Reverend’s wife. She was almost twenty years his junior, and undeniably beautiful. She was tall, lean, and elegant. She had a soft, heart shaped face, ornamented with a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her lips were plush and naturally rosy. Her hair was thick, wavy and a shade of an almost crimson red, and her eyes were a green that rivaled that of a New England spring. But, for all of that welcoming exterior, Elizabeth Parris was awash in a cloud of bitter, self-righteous, haughtiness. 

“Miss Granger,” she said indifferently, her voice was low and slightly raspy.

“Mrs. Parris,” Hermione greeted, her voice calm and belying the nervous beating of her heart. Elizabeth stepped aside and extended her arm, directing Hermione into the room. Hermione walked forward, thankfully putting the other woman out of her line of sight for the moment. However, what came into view, was far more unsettling. There, strapped by both hands and feet to their corresponding corners of the bed, was seven-year-old Betty Parris.


	5. Chapter 5

A waif of a girl, Betty’s stature was derived directly from her father, but she possessed her mother’s brilliant hair and electric eyes. However, that slight figure looked anything but feeble as she thrashed and struggled against her confinement, causing the frame of her bed (as Hermione had rightly guessed) to hammer against the nearest wall. Her eyes were rolling wildly, and she was screaming her throat raw. As unsettling as it was, Hermione remained levelheaded. She had, unfortunately, seen this before. Bad grain could become littered with mold and affect the mind if eaten. A high fever for an extended period could boil the brain in its skull. Rarely did these afflictions loose themselves of their victims completely, and even when those who suffered were no longer in mortal danger, they were often never entirely themselves again. It was a shame to see someone so young enduring such an arduous illness and knowing that it would never truly leave her.

“Betty,” Hermione called softly as she approached the bed slowly, setting her bag down gently beside it and pulling up the stool that she assumed the girl’s mother had only recently vacated. “Betty, this is Miss Granger. I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can, I am just going to check you over, see how to best help you.” She spoke evenly and clearly, doing her best not to shout over the sound of Betty’s wailing as not to further add to the girl, or her parents’, distress. Hermione turned to look at the girls’ parents, “I’ll need to undress her. I want to check her for rashes, and I need to make sure she hasn’t damaged any of her bones or muscles pulling against the restraints.” Reverend Parris nodded and hastily excused himself from the room. Elizabeth, contrarily, grabbed another chair out of the corner and strode towards the bed and took it upon herself to begin unbuttoning the nightgown in which the girl had been dressed.

“This,” Elizabeth noted, pointing to Betty’s sternum as she pulled the fabric away from it, “is why we had to restrain her in the first place.” Angry red scratches banded her skin, some seemingly fresher than others. “When she didn’t stop after a few days, we had no other choice,” Elizabeth’s voice was stern, daring Hermione to say something that might indicate that she had made a wrong, or cruel choice on behalf of her child.

“You were right to do it,” Hermione acquiesced, looking the other woman firmly in the face. She needed Elizabeth to know that she was on her side. Mrs. Parris’s stone walls would only hinder Hermione’s ability to care for the girl, and that was what she was there to do. “How long ago did this start?” she queried, moving to finish undoing the gown where Elizabeth had stopped. 

“About four days ago,” Elizabeth said, sitting back and letting Hermione continue. “That night, Abigail came downstairs crying, telling us Betty was throwing toys against the wall, smashing them to bits and when she had told her to stop, Betty had begun throwing them at her. We couldn’t quiet her. Nothing worked. Not discipline, not coddling. It was as though she could neither hear nor see us. Then the scratching at herself began. Clawing as if she were trying to dig something out of her chest. So we restrained her. She hasn’t spoken a coherent word since,” for the first time, Hermione heard a crack in the other woman’s voice. She turned to see tears shining down Elizabeth’s face, her lower lip trembling against the force of the sob it was attempting to barricade in. Hermione did it without thinking; she turned and clasped the other woman’s hands in her own. At first, Elizabeth made as though she would recoil, but slowly the tension went out of her. And suddenly, her arms were about Hermione’s neck and she was sobbing uncontrollably against the other woman’s shoulder. Caught off guard, Hermione froze momentarily, as though the touch had turned her to stone. However, she quickly shook the fog that had clouded her brain upon being embraced by the other woman, and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a firm hug.

“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth,” she spoke softly, “I promise you; I will do everything I can to help Betty and to help you.” Elizabeth’s sobs quieted as she pulled back, locking her shining green eyes upon Hermione’s deep brown ones.

“You’ve always been this way. You’ve been this way since we were girls. Always there to put others before yourself…even those who are unkind to you,” she cast her eyes downward as she finished her sentence, and Hermione recognized that all-too-familiar look of shame at her own words. 

“It’s my job,” Hermione stated. As soon as she heard the words, she knew they were wrong. They were cold and unfeeling. They were untrue. She would’ve done anything to help Elizabeth all those years ago. She’d do anything now.

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied sharply, pulling her hands away and stiffening once again, “your job,” she repeated.

“Lizzy, I—” but Mrs. Parris cut her off.

“Lizzy? Do you use such informal terms with all of your clients?” she prodded venomously. Hermione sighed deeply and rubbed her temples in an exasperated attempt to fend off the tension headache she suddenly felt creeping in.

“No,” Hermione began gently. “Lizzy, I misspoke. I panicked. I’m trying to do my best for both of you in this situation and I didn’t think bringing up a past that’s no less difficult than our situation in this room would be of any aid to that. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. You must know that to be true…” Hermione pleaded, searching the other woman’s once again stony face. Again, at her words, the marble became flesh.

“I do,” Elizabeth breathed, once again taking Hermione’s hand gently in her own. “Thank you for coming here, Hermione. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t. Not after…well, not after everything.” Hermione squeezed Elizabeth’s hand reassuringly and turned back towards Betty.

After careful examination of the girl’s personage, Hermione could find no rashes, bruises, or indications of damaged or torn muscles, although the girls wrists and ankles chaffed slightly where the restraints lay. For this, Hermione recommended a simple beeswax balm.

“Due to the lack of rashes, which would usually accompany something like scarlet fever, measles, or typhus, she must have eaten something contaminated with mold or fungus. They can cause fevers of the brain, delusions, ill-temperament, but rarely have other outward symptoms.” Hermione concluded, moving to search through her bag.

“Can you help it?” Elizabeth asked, her voice quaking in wait of the answer.

“I can give her something to fight the fever, which is of the greatest danger to her at the moment. However, I do not have any of the tonic prepared. I will have to return tomorrow after I make it tonight. Will you be available for me to call again tomorrow?” Hermione asked, closing her bag and getting to her feet.

“Yes, I will be here with Betty. Abigail and Samuel are going to ride into Boston tomorrow to call upon Reverend Mather. Samuel has worked alongside him previously and believes he may be able to help Betty. They’ll not be back until late tomorrow night, I would suppose.” Hermione couldn’t help but notice the way Elizabeth’s eyes searched her as she spoke, looking for something, though Hermione could not be sure what.

“All right then,” Hermione nodded. “Oh, before I forget,” she opened her bag once again and removed a small brown bottle. “It’s a sleeping draught,” she said, handing it over to Elizabeth. “It’s strong. Three drops under her tongue, if you can manage with the Reverend’s help, and she should sleep soundly tonight. And hopefully, so will you.” Hermione added.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth clutched the bottle gratefully. “We will look forward to your return tomorrow…I just want my sweet, gentle, Betty back.” A tear dripped down Elizabeth’s cheek as she said this, and Hermione, against her better judgment, or in complete absence of judgement at all, more like, moved towards her, lifting a soft hand to wipe the droplet away. Elizabeth grasped Hermione’s wrist, preventing her from removing her hand, and she leaned her cheek gently into Hermione’s palm, closing her eyes and sighing.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, her eyes still closed.

“So am I,” Hermione replied in kind. Gently, she pulled her hand away and began towards the door. Turning, she met Elizabeth’s eyes, which were watching her again. “I’ll see you in the morrow,” she smiled. She was met with a soft upturning of the red head’s lips and a quick nod. With that, Hermione left the room, shutting the door gently upon Betty’s cries so that Elizabeth might stop up the door once again, and made her way back down the hall and down the stairs. Abigail and the Reverend Parris sat by the fire together, the man with his arm wrapped around the girls’ shoulders in what Hermione knew was meant to be affection but was somewhat amusingly short of it. Samuel Parris was a flighty, timid, and uneasy man, always wilting in the shadow of those greater than he. How he had ended up with the firestorm that was Elizabeth Parris, Hermione was still unsure, and she furrowed her brow at the thought. Leaving the two uninterrupted in their grief, she made her way silently to the coat rack, gathered her things, and slipped out the front door and into the fresh snowflakes that were drifting through the dark. She found her way home, pausing on her journey to bed only long enough to rejuvenate herself with some hot tea and fire-warmed biscuits with jam. Afterwards, she settled herself into her bed, cloaking herself tightly in blankets against the cold outside, against the memories of her day, against the day that would come tomorrow.

But she could not shield herself of dreams. And for the first time in years, Hermione dreamed of Elizabeth Parris.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Note: Hello and thank you to anyone reading this! I am so sorry there has been such a delay in chapters, but the last few months of my life have been plagued by some rather intense medical issues. I am so glad to be back to writing again, and will do my best to continue to update regularly. Thank you again to those of you who’ve stuck around, and welcome to any newcomers! Enjoy! 

Hermione drifted into a deep sleep, her body and mind exhausted from the day’s work. It wasn’t long before her subconscious drifted, danced upon the images, sounds, smells of that day and plummeted her into an all too distant memory.

***

Hermione followed her through the dappled light of the forest. Her senses were alive, greedily drinking in every bit of the world around her; the clinging scent of the damp earth, the sharp crunch of leaves beneath their feet, the warmth of Lizzy’s hand around her wrist, pulling her forward.  
“Just a bit further,” the red head called back, looking over her shoulder with a beaming grin. Hermione smiled back and hurried along as best she could, glancing down frequently to avoid tangled roots and large stones. “Here,” Lizzy slowed to a near stop as they broke through the brush. The glade was dancing in the late afternoon sunlight and the ground was a flickering fire of color; wildflowers sprung from nearly every inch of the ground.  
“Lizzy, it’s beautiful,” Hermione breathed, now the one leading the pair as she stepped out into the opened patch within the forest, letting the unbroken sunshine warm her face.  
“I thought you might like the flowers. They’re beautiful, and you’re always picking them to put in those little potions of yours,” Lizzy giggled. Hermione’s inside went cold at the open, reckless use of the word potion, a word that would never escape her lips. Tinctures, salves, tonics, all acceptable. Potion. That held a meaning she could never be associated with. Lizzy noticed the stern line Hermione’s mouth had become at the word, and her brows furrowed in regret.  
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, taking Hermione’s hand. “I meant no offense. I don’t think your work is silly. I think it’s very important. You help people,” her eyes searched Hermione’s face pleadingly as she spoke. The brunette’s expression couldn’t help but soften and she squeezed the red head’s hand gently.  
“If only everyone thought my work to be so,” she sighed and pulled Lizzy with her further into the clearing. Letting go of the other woman’s hand, she knelt down amongst a particularly dense patch of flowers. She ran her hand above their blossoms, relishing in the refracted beams of colored light that danced upon her palm. She stopped over a rounded flower, flaming orange red in the light. She placed her fingers about its stem and delicately plucked it from the earth. “Dark centered poppy,” she mused, standing and turning with the offering towards Lizzy. “Beauty, magic, and eternal life,” she smiled, extending the blossom. Lizzy’s smattering of freckles drowned in a tidal wave of blush as she smiled and stepped closer to Hermione, taking the flower gently from her. Hermione’s breath hitched as Lizzy was now centimeters from her, one hand holding the flower, the other delicately caressing the side of her face. Dark brown eyes caught electric green, and the spark between them was palpable. Without any hesitation, as if to throw Hermione’s out as well, Lizzy leaned forward and pressed her soft, full lips to Hermione’s. If Hermione hadn’t known better, she would’ve sworn she had never known magic before this. Her body surged with every pleasant sensation she was capable of feeling, and her usually indominable mind took a back seat to corporeal hunger. As Lizzy pulled away gently, Hermione unconsciously drifted after, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. She was shaken from her trance by the warm ripple of Lizzy’s laugh. Hermione’s eyes snapped open and now her face was the one struck crimson.  
“I…you…” she stammered, feeling as though she’d lost all capability for intelligent thought.  
“Might I be bold enough to assume that that was not objectionable to you?” Lizzy queried with unbridled satisfaction at the state in which she had rendered the brunette.  
“No, no it was not,” Hermione attested quickly, drawing in a steadying breath.  
“Good,” Lizzy said, and, with that, a ravenous grin spread over her lips as she tackled Hermione to the forest floor. The brunette hit the ground with a startled oomph and eyes as wide as dinner plates as the red head straddled her hips, filling the glade with billowing laughter at the bewildered girl beneath her. When her laughter finally died, she bent slowly, pressing her body gently against the one beneath her. Hermione’s breath hitched in her chest, and her dark brown eyes were now blown as black as the center of the poppy that lay discarded beside them. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut as the pillowy lips were upon hers once again, this time, with more insistence, more force. She responded in kind, and her hands, as if of their own volition, made their way up under the hem of the red head’s dress, sliding up wiry thighs bound in satiny flesh. Her fingers squeezed and Lizzy gave a pleasantly startled gasp at the hungry touch. 

And as if it were a might of dust caught in the wind, the scene drifted away and Hermione was plummeted into one much darker.

***

Hermione’s hands were on Lizzy’s thighs, shining with sweat and tensing under each contraction of muscles. The wispy curls around her forehead that she could never seem to convince to stay pulled back with the rest of her fiery locks clung damply to the red head’s face. Her brow was furrowed and her teeth clenched, fighting back a scream.  
“Please,” she panted, “please make it stop,” she growled, her hand grasping Hermione’s desperately.  
“I know it hurts, but you’ve got to keep pushing, we are almost there,” Hermione reassured her, squeezing her hand gently. Lizzy’s green eyes hardened as she nodded and leaned forward, bearing down with all that she had left in her. A strangled cry escaped her throat and her fingers gripped Hermione’s own with a force the brunette thought was sure to break them. Then, she tugged her hand away, not for the pain, but to have both available to cradle the damp head, shoulders, chest, finally making its way into the world. Lizzy slumped back on the bed, her face the image of exhaustion. Hermione looked down at the mewling baby in her arms whose eyes shown back at her, terrified and emerald green.  
“Hermione, is—is the baby…” Lizzy breathed, trying to lean forward, prop herself up on her elbows to look at her child.  
“She’s beautiful, and healthy,” Hermione smiled, reassuring Lizzy. She delicately placed the baby on the space of the bed between Lizzy’s legs, and deftly tied off and snipped the umbilical cord. When it was finished, she scooped the baby up once again, this time in a blanket, and made her way around to the head of the bed, wiping the baby clean as best she could along the way. Hermione stooped slowly, her heart shattering into a thousand irretrievable pieces as she placed the baby of the woman she loved and the man she hated more than the Devil himself into her mother’s waiting arms. Their gazes met, and a gentle tear rolled down Lizzy’s cheek as she searched the face of the woman above her.  
“I—I can never thank you enough. After everything, you didn’t have to…” Lizzy breathed, her voice becoming thick in the manner of someone working to restrain their emotion. Hermione felt her own eyes brimming with tears, and blinked quickly, willing them away.  
“It’s my job, you don’t have to thank me,” she said, at a loss for any words that could possibly capture how she was feeling.  
“Yes…you’re job,” Lizzy spoke, her smile fading into the look of someone who has mistaken a stranger for someone they know.  
“Lizzy, I—” Hermione began to plead, a flood of regret and shame leaving her own feelings of self-pity and heartbreak drowning in their wake. But the door opened, and the gaunt figure of Samuel Parris filled it’s frame.  
“Is it over?” he asked, his voice shaking with the clear discomfort of being in such proximity to something so viciously natural. Hermione opened her mouth to speak but there was no need.  
“Yes. It’s over,” Lizzy’s eyes met her own one last time, and this time, Hermione could not restrain her tears.

***

Hermione woke with a gasp; all the air seemingly vanquished from her lungs by the sob that wrung through the darkness of her bedroom. Her chest heaved under the sorrow and the desperate need for breath, and she cried openly and loudly. How can I go back there in the morning? How can I do this again? The racing of her mind quieted her body slightly, and she wiped the tears away from her face. She lay back against her pillow, trying desperately to stop those images from flitting before her eyes in the dark. No sooner had she settled, however, and she was jolted upright again by a wrap upon her front door. She reached for her candle beside her bed, pinching the wick between her thumb and forefinger and muttering, Incendio. The wick took flame and she moved swiftly in the flickering swath of light towards her door.  
“Who is it?” She called as she breached the kitchen and came within view of the door. The visitor called back with the last voice she had expected:  
“Mademoiselle Granger, I am so sorry to ‘ave bothered you at this time of night,” the airy, accented voice of none other than Fleur Delacour called out in the night.


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione closed the distance to the door and opened it quickly. Standing in the dark, holding a candle of her own that had been long since blown out by the fiercely howling gale, stood the windswept figure of Fleur Delacour. She was wrapped in a coat of jet-black fur, and a finely woven scarf was draped across the bottom of her nose and obscured the lower half of her face, leaving visible only high cheekbones adorned with a blush earned from the cold and sparkling blue eyes. The moon was on its descent and Hermione ventured that is was nearing 3 o’clock in the morning. 

“Mademoiselle Delacour, what on earth are you doing here at such an hour?” she queried, doing her best to keep the irritation she felt at such an unwelcome guest at such an unwelcome hour out of her voice.

“I am so sorry to ‘ave bothered you, Mademoiselle, but my father is injured, and it cannot wait until morning,” she spoke quickly, failing to keep the fear from her voice. Injured? At this hour? Hermione wondered what could possibly have happened to cause him such grievous injury at an hour that had the whole of Salem Village quieter than a graveyard. Eventually, her curiosity outweighed her distaste for the woman before her, and she nodded curtly.

“Let me get my things. It will only be a moment,” she moved to fetch her things, and only as she turned away did she realize she had not invited Fleur in out of the cold, and that the blonde at least had the manners not to enter unwelcomed, as she remained in the snow, drawing the silken fur about her more tightly.

“Merci, Mademoiselle Granger,” she replied simply, watching as Hermione retreated quickly into her home.

Within minutes, Hermione had dressed and collected her medical bag and was heading once again towards the door and the waiting Fleur. Hermione drew her own scarf over her face as she stepped out into the snow.

“If you will follow me, our ‘ome is just past Monsieur Winslow’s tobacco fields on the southern edge of the village,” Fleur gestured past the buildings that lined the town center and started off, trudging through the snow that was now ankle deep. Hermione set off after her, following the shimmer of moonlight that danced off of the fine black coat. Hermione remained silent through the center of town, following dutifully, but as they reached the barren expanse of the frost-bitten tobacco fields, her curiosity got the better of her.

“What happened to your father?” Hermione called against the wind, trying to keep the ever-growing interest out of her voice.

“I…well, I think ‘ee is better to explain that,” the blonde woman called back to her, and Hermione’s brow furrowed at the spectacularly unconcealed avoidance in the woman’s voice. Hermione came to an abrupt halt, the Delacour’s house now visible through the haze of snow.

“Miss Delacour, I would like the courtesy of a direct answer. If I have gotten out of bed at this hour, it will not be to walk into a situation that I have no business, or desire, to be a part of,” Hermione stood firmly, her eyes set resolutely upon Fleur.

“Oui, I owe you this. My father was struck by a curse while returning home late this evening.” Fleur stated matter-of-factly. Hermione did everything within her power not to openly role her eyes at the use of the word “curse”.

“Miss Delacour, I would never have thought you, of all people, would so rapidly fall prey to this Puritanical nonsense. No one has cursed your father, the Devil is not upon your door; I’m rather sure he has greater business to attend to than to take his time to curse a French shipping merchant from Salem Village.” Hermione snapped irritably, no longer wasting her energy on pretense. Fleur turned slowly and gazed at Hermione. Hermione’s anger turned to confusion, as even with the scarf pulled over most of her face, the Frenchwoman’s eyebrows were arched and her eyes were slightly crinkled with what was unmistakably an amused smile. She walked towards Hermione, closing the distance that her longer legs and the ever-deepening snow had put between them.

“Oui, the Devil ‘as not cursed my father,” she mused, stopping now an arm’s length from the brunette, pulling her scarf down to reveal the remainder of her face. “You and I both know that. But, while the Puritans are entirely incorrect in their fear of who is cursing them, their fears of magic are not unfounded. You, of all people, Mademoiselle Granger, should know this,” Fleur locked eyes with her, and Hermione felt as though those icy blue orbs were looking through her. She felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest, and her breathing became unmeasured under Fleur’s unrelenting gaze. This is a trap. I am being marched to my death. Hermione’s mind raced. Was it worth using magic now, to get out of this? It would mean she would have to flee immediately, but it might save her life. Or was Fleur playing a hand she did not possess? Was this all a front, a guess, and a display of magic would give her away unnecessarily? She had no idea how long she had been standing there contemplating before Fleur quickly removed the glove from her right hand and extended it between them, palm up.

“Lumos,” she murmured, and a bright ball of light formed in her palm. Hermione gasped, her knees buckling with shock, her medical bag falling into the snow. Fleur moved swiftly, the light extinguishing as she darted forward and slid her arms under Hermione’s firmly, preventing her from falling. “I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you, but I was unsure of any other way to show you that you can trust me,” Fleur spoke gently, her voice nothing less than sincerely apologetic at Hermione’s state of near shock.

“You – you’re – you’re a –” Hermione trailed off, her voice failing her, her eyes raking over Fleur’s visage, who now had a rogue lock of her silvery blonde hair cascading over her face, her brow knotted with empathy, her full lips frowning slightly. She’s quite beautiful. Hermione mused momentarily before she shook her head as though to dislodge the unwelcome observation as she planted her feet and straightened herself, her cheeks flush with heat as she realized she was still being held in Fleur’s arms.

“I’m a witch, oui.” Fleur nodded, stepping back from Hermione who was now visibly attempting to compose herself. Her lips had become a taught line and her brow’s signature furrow had deepened. “And so are you,” Fleur gestured towards her casually. Hermione’s brain went into overdrive; Does she really know I’m a witch? Just because she’s one too, doesn’t mean I can trust her. She may be plotting to expose me. Mother would still be here if it weren’t for witches who couldn’t hold their tongue. Maybe she was sent here—Hermione’s thoughts were still spiraling and she barely had time to react to what happened next.

“Oh vraiment,” Fleur sighed, exasperatedly, “viens maintenant, assez avec ces faux-semblants! Incarcarous!” Fleur’s hand shot like lightning towards Hermione, and the spell came in its wake; a burst of bluish light and ropes, serpenting forth from it. On little more than pure instinct, Hermione brought her hands up before her, palms up and fingers splayed wide,

“Protego!” she shouted, and the air rippled with the force of her shield. To her great surprise, she was shoved back about three feet, her planted feet sliding in the snow, when the raw force of Fleur’s curse hit her magical barrier. But the shield charm had done its job and the ropes fizzled into whispy blue vapor upon contact.

“Now that this is settled,” Fleur stated as though she had not just tried to tie Hermione up in ropes, “we can continue our journey, non?” She glanced up at Hermione as she pulled her glove back on and snugged her furs around her.

“Y-yes,” Hermione stammered, her hands lowering slowly.

“Merveilleuse,” Fleur flashed a brilliantly white, toothy smile, and summarily spun on her heals, resuming her march in the direction of her family home. Hermione bent swiftly, snatching up her medical bag and falling in line, mind racing, heart pounding, with the most powerful witch she had ever met.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione could feel the dark magic before she could see it. Her steps faltered as they approached the front door, the hairs on the back of her neck and along her forearms standing on end. Fleur looked back as she began to open the door, obviously sensing that the other witch was no longer right behind her.

“Je sais,” Fleur nodded her head sympathetically, her lips pressed together and her eyes downcast, “I feel it too. I felt it coming as ‘ee approached the ‘ouse returning ‘ome. It is powerful magic…” she trailed off, turning once more to face the door. Hermione closed the distance between them, and she saw Fleur’s shoulders rise and fall with what she knew must be a steadying breath before the blonde-haired witch pushed the door open.

The Delacour’s house was a marker of their station and their lack of Puritan heritage; large, ornately decorated, warm, and welcoming. The house opened into an expansive kitchen that was bathed now, only in silvery moonlight, but Hermione imagined it was probably warm and sunny during the daylight hours. Fleur hung her coat and the rest of her outdoor garments on a rack just inside, and Hermione followed suit. Fleur was clad in a simple cotton dress of cerulean blue that puffed slightly at the shoulders. The dress had a high collar, fastened by a line of buttons that ran all the way down between her breasts. The Frenchwoman reached up and undid the three buttons of her collar, and several more of those that trailed down her sternum, mindlessly swiping the fabric apart and taking a deep, relieved breath. The freshly revealed flesh looked like the finest white marble in the grey light of the wee morning hours, and Hermione found her gaze lingering there.

“Mademoiselle Granger, are you alright?” She was snapped from her reverie by Fleur ducking her head to catch Hermione’s gaze, eyebrows arched inquisitively, a small smile playing along full, rosy lips.

“Hmm?—Oh, yes, yes,” Hermione felt herself blush furiously and busied herself with picking up her bag which she had placed on the floor while she took off her coat. “Can you show me to your father, please?”

“Bien sûr,” Fleur nodded curtly, but Hermione noticed her lips were tucked under, clearly attempting to wrestle down a smirk. The two set off through the house, Fleur delicately flicking her hands at each wall-mounted lantern as they passed, the wicks bursting into flame as she did so. Hermione took admirable note of this skillful, non-verbal magic. Besides herself, Bridget, and her mother, she had never encountered another witch who so adeptly cast magic without vocalizing a spell. But, then again, she had never met a witch like Fleur Delacour before. As they exited the living room, now well-lit with a fire roaring in the hearth thanks to Fleur, a chill skated up Hermione’s spine. She could feel the magic that was on the other side of the door that they now stood in front of. Fleur turned to her,

“Are you ready?” she asked, her eyes locking with Hermione’s.

“As I’ll ever be,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice calm and level, as much for her own confidence as for Fleur’s. Fleur opened the door and entered; Hermione tight on her heels. As they broke the plane of the door, Hermione caught sight of Fleur’s father in the dim candlelight; he was a short, thickly built man with an equally thick mustache. The greater portion of his hair had gone with age, but time had yet to touch what was clearly a hardy, hardworking frame. He was strapped to a chair by heavy ropes wrapped around his trunk, pinning his arms to his sides just above his elbows. Fleur’s mother, a blonde, beautiful witch, even taller and fairer skinned and haired than Fleur, was speaking to him pleadingly in French, tears streaming down her face. Her left forearm was wrapped thickly with gauze which blossomed red in the middle as the blood from whatever wonld lay underneath continued to weep. Hermione watched as over and over, she tried to approach him gently and he kicked out at her with his legs, snarling vicious words back at her in French.

“‘Ee is not normally an angry man.” Hermione’s heart ached with a pang of pity at the sadness tinting Fleur’s voice.

“We will set him straight.” Hermione strode forward purposefully, extending the outstretched hand that was not holding her bag placatingly towards Madam Delacour. “What is your mother’s name, and does she speak English?” she called over her shoulder, as the tall woman before her appraised her unsurely with tear-swollen deep, blue eyes.

“‘Er name eez Apolline and yes, she speaks Eenglish,” the woman spat as she looked down her aquiline nose, her jaw set angrily. Her accent was much thicker than Fleur’s but, there was no doubt that she was a fluent speaker, and Hermione felt her face redden.

“My deepest apologies, Madam Delacour, I meant no offence,” Hermione offered, “but please, may I look at your arm before I help your husband, see if I might be able to stay the bleeding?” The older witch sniffled lightly, still looking thoroughly unamused with the young woman before her, but held her arm out, nonetheless. Hermione smiled in what she hoped was somehow a simultaneously apologetic and reassuring manner, and gently grasped the other woman’s hand. She placed her bag on the ground, and began to unwrap the dressing, going slowly as not to pull on any flesh that might now be stuck to the damp material encasing it. “What happened?”

“Fabien came ‘ome, ‘ee was not ‘imself,” the older witch’s voice was thick with barely held back sobs, her eyes welling at the memory. “‘Ee came into our bedroom, and set ze bed alight. I can only assume zat ‘ee thought I was in ze bed, but I ‘ad gotten up for a glass of water. When I came into ze room, ‘ee ‘exed me,” she nodded down at her arm, “I cried out, trying to get ‘eem to stop, but ‘ee ‘ad zis faraway look in ‘is eyes. Fleur ‘eard me yelling and she came running and between ze two of us, we were able to restrain ‘im. Zat eez when I sent ‘er to fetch you.” Her voice cracked as she finished, and a tear rolled down her face. Fleur stood beside her now, lovingly rubbing the arm Hermione was not engaged with. Apolline leaned into the touch, reaching out and entwining her fingers with her daughter’s. As Hermione removed the last bit of gauze, she heard Fleur gasp and it was barely within her power not do so herself. A six-inch gash ran down the center of Apolline’s forearm. The muscle was exposed in layers; the flesh was torn and ragged, indicating that the hex had mimicked a slow, painful wounding with a dull, serrated object. Less efficient, slower, magic, easier to defend (had you been prepared to be attacked by your own husband) but more painful, more dangerous, more difficult to heal. It would leave a scar.

“This is going to hurt,” Apolline nodded resolutely, drawing herself upright with a deep steadying breath. Hermione saw Fleur squeeze her mother’s hand, say something softly to her in French, and wrap her other arm tightly around her shoulders. Hermione placed her left hand firmly underneath Apolline’s forearm, gripping it tightly. She hovered her right hand over the wound and looked up, catching Apolline’s visage, eyes dark, the lines of her face somehow more angular, hard, even bird-like in the dull-light, but the older witch nodded and Hermione could see the taught muscles along her jaw clench and flex. Hermione clamped her hand down over the wound and the blood was instantly hot against her palm. She could feel it. The dark magic lingering in the witch’s flesh was vile, swelling, hateful. _Be careful, my love_. No sooner had it come, then her mother’s voice, ringing with fear, was drowned out by Fleur’s shriek of “_Maman, non!_” and the feeling of Apolline’s other hand, closing like a vice, around Hermione’s throat.


End file.
